


Paradox and Other Difficult Questions

by Vrunka



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Emotionally stunted men making bad choices, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: “So you were dead, right?” Dante asks and Vergil really, really isn’t sure how to answer that.





	Paradox and Other Difficult Questions

His hand is on Vergil’s chin. Roughened leather of his gloves prickling the skin. Bizarre, it should be worn smooth from the countless hours they’ve spent down here battling.

“What are you doing?”

“Studying you,” Dante answers, simply enough.

While answering absolutely nothing. Vergil feels his lip rise, chin tilting to escape Dante’s grip. “Dante,” he snarls, a warning, an indrawn hiss.

“Woah now, calm down there, pussycat,” Dante says. He grins and it’s the stupidest, goofiest, ugliest thing Vergil has ever seen on his stupid brother’s worthless face. “I’m just lookin’.”

“You don’t need your hands for that.”

Dante’s fingers drop away. Vergil’s skin still itches where they had touched, maddening little whispers. How long has he been alone and wandering, a voice that is his and yet not asks from the corner of his mind. Half-remembered phantoms of things, inescapable, uncatchable.

“You’re right,” Dante says.

Vergil bites his tongue. He will not ask Dante to touch him again. Instead he settles for glaring while his brother’s gaze roams over his face. The scrutiny makes him feel hot, skin too tight on the proud jut of his cheekbones, around his ears.

“So you were dead, right?” Dante asks.

Vergil studies him, considers. The ramifications of his being alive now are something he hasn’t dwelled on. He is alive, he intends to stay alive, same as when they were kids. His time as Nelo Angelo was...something else, half-death. His split, his departure from himself is something else as well, life lived too fully, concurrently and impossible.

“I don’t know,” he says. The confession is uncomfortable at best; there is very little that Vergil does not know after his years and years of study.

Dante nods, solemn, for once. Grim-set jaw. All that stubble, silver and white. “Do you remember anything from...from any of it?”

“Any of what, Dante?”

“I don’t know. You know I’m not exactly cut out for the math behind your demon magic, time-shifted bullshit, right? You’re my brother, I know that without asking. There’s no one who can piss me off quite like you can. A unique skillset, if I do say so myself.”

Vergil feels himself grinning back at his brother, a smug curl to his lips. Dante’s tone holds little real heat. This is how they have been for all eternity.

“But V wasn’t my age. And something in you is-is—,” Dante moves his hand, flicks it, up and down gesturing to Vergil’s entire self. “Is different. Your face is. Or not different, I guess I should say. You haven’t aged Vergil. Not correctly.”

“How do you mean?”

“You look like I looked, I don’t know, five? Six years ago?”

Vergil touches his own chin, fingers following the curve of his jaw subconsciously. Looking at Dante he can see that Dante has gotten older than when they fought years ago; he’s a bum now with that too-long hair, that grizzly stubble. He had just assumed he had followed in suit.

“Don’t get a mirror much down here, I guess,” Dante says.

“I was more focused on—,” he falters, saying revenge now sounds so petty. So little. So weak. Things he is not. He sniffs, finishes with, “On surviving. I didn’t really think about it.”

“Nothing to do now but think about it,” Dante says. He leans closer, flicks a finger against the point of Vergil’s chin. “You’re younger than me, that makes me the older one now.”

“That isn’t how it works.”

“Isn’t it though,” Dante teases. “Now you gotta listen to all my asshole ideas cuz you’re supposed to have respect for your elders, Vergil.”

“Respect is earned, Dante.”

“Yeah? You gonna make me earn it?” Dante lifts his hand like he’s going to poke at Vergil’s face again and Vergil catches his wrist before he can. Their eyes meet and the challenge is as clear and evident as all the ones that have come before.

Vergil twists, pushes himself off the ground with his free hand. Dante’s wrist flexes in his grip but it’s too late. Vergil’s momentum carries them both over, end over end, rolling on the ground like they are children again.

Dante’s fist catches Vergil in the ribs. Dante’s breath huffs out rough and explosive across Vergil’s face when Vergil’s knee jerks into his gut.

It isn’t sophisticated or nearly as bloodthirsty as their other fights, demon claws and flashing steel. This is their eternity, what it always comes down to. Puerile, stupid nonsense.

Dante ends up on top, palm pressed flat to Vergil’s chin, keeping his neck angled too harshly. He can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against the heel of Dante’s hand; feels how easily that grip could shift, could move to choking him instead of this.

Vergil licks his lips.

Dante’s eyes meet his.

Something shivers between them. Like those phantoms that hang around the unused places in Vergil’s mind, things with names like V, names like Urizen, Nelo Angelo; it is something that is not and yet has always been. A contradiction.

Vergil swallows. Dante’s hand presses down, reflexively, at the motion. Not enough to cut off his airway, the angle won’t allow for it, the stiffness in Dante’s arm won’t, but pressure all the same.

“Guess I win,” Dante says. His hand slides off of Vergil’s throat. His weight shifts back, trapping Vergil’s knees between his thighs.

“You haven’t won anything,” Vergil bites back.

Dante’s eyes narrow. His breathing stutters just a little bit. “You sure about that,” he says.

Vergil snarls, bucks his hips and they’re ass over teakettle again. Vergil is a snake in Dante’s grip, twisting and coiling whenever his brother’s hands catch purchase on his coat. They scuffle and scratch and punch at each other ineffectually until finally, finally, Vergil surfaces.

His knees are locked around Dante’s heaving chest. Arm pining Dante’s wrist to the ground, thigh trapping the other against his body.

They’re both breathing too heavily but Vergil still manages to grin when he says, “Yes, Dante, I’m pretty sure.”

There’s sweat collected on Dante’s collar, tracking down the corded tendons in his neck. Staining Dante’s already filthy shirt, dark splotches in the fabric. Idly, Vergil picks at the material with his free hand, lifting it off of Dante’s chest, letting it fall back into place.

Dante is staring at him. There is foreign heat in his gaze, a blush on his cheeks that Vergil hasn’t seen before. An intoxicating rush of answering warmth flashes through Vergil’s own skin, shivering down his spine.

“Vergil,” Dante says.

“It’s my turn, right? Just to look,” Vergil says. The pads of his fingers rasp against the stubble on Dante’s jaw. More than stubble, soft growth, a beard, a short one but full and growing.

“Don’t need your hands for that I thought,” Dante says back. There is a layered heat to his tone, all sorts of implications and teasing, but none of it is anger. None of it is correct.

Vergil covers Dante’s mouth with his hand. “Shh,” he reprimands. And then he realizes what he has done.

Dante’s lips are dry against his palm, startlingly pink. The cuts on them, recurring from their constant flickering battles, are small and red. Vergil lets his fingers stroke one, from the bottom of Dante’s pouty lower lip and up up, almost into his mouth. Dante’s eyes flutter shut, his body goes lax. His lips open just the littlest bit to accept the tip of Vergil’s finger.

Neither of them are breathing now. Something as obtuse as breathing could threaten to break the delicate atmosphere building between them. Shatter that hard-fought intimacy.

Instinctually, Vergil’s knees tighten about Dante’s torso, squeezing in reflexively at the sudden searing heat in his belly. He drags his finger out of Dante’s mouth; drags Dante’s lip with it, baring his brother’s lower teeth, imperfect angles but white and clean within the soft, red insides.

“What is this,” Vergil asks.

Dante’s gaze is clear and sharp when he says, “You tell me, V.”

Somewhere in this, Dante’s arm has slipped loose of Vergil’s grip. His hand slides under the lapels of Vergil’s coat to curl around Vergil’s hip.

“Later I’ll deny I ever said this, but I’m glad you aren’t dead. Glad Nero stopped me from killing you,” Dante says.

“You can’t kill me.”

“I know. That’s the problem isn’t it? Human weakness.”

“I can’t kill you either,” Vergil says. “I want to but I—“ his hand touches Dante’s throat. Fits the way he had thought about Dante doing it earlier. Grasping lightly just above Dante’s trembling Adam’s apple. Tips of his fingers tickled by the outgrown scruff just under Dante’s jaw.

He presses down, a heartbeat, maybe less. Brief and fleeting. Dante doesn’t fight it, his gaze doesn’t waver, his hand doesn’t move. Only his breathing stalls, as Vergil puts enough pressure to obstruct his trachea.

His eyes flutter shut when Vergil lets up barely a second later. Something like a groan slips past his lips as he exhales. His other hand rises from his side, grips Vergil’s other hip. Encircling him, guiding him.

Vergil lets both of his hands rest on Dante’s neck, thumbs meeting in the middle, tracing down Dante’s skin. Sweat from Dante’s hair brushing his knuckles.

“Like this,” Vergil says, “I could snap your neck.”

“Uh huh,” Dante intones. His chin lifts. Smarmy fucking bastard, grinning like he’s inviting it.

“I could just choke you until—,” he squeezes, digs his thumbs into the soft flesh right beneath Dante’s jaw. Feels Dante’s pulse speed up maddeningly beneath his fingers.

“Until you—until you aren’t any more,” Vergil finishes.

He holds so tight, presses in until his forearms ache. Like he means every word. He does mean every word. Dante flexes beneath him, a wave pinned down by his throat, undulating between Vergil’s trapping thighs. Vergil snarls, he grips even harder, unwilling to be thrown from his perch. But Dante’s hands don’t stop cradling his waist, dragging him closer before pushing him back. Shoving him back until—

Until oh—

Vergil releases the pressure, hand flying to hold his weight, fingers digging into the soft ground right by Dante’s head as Dante ruts against him. The grip Dante has on his hips dragging him back and forth against Dante’s clear and evident erection.

“Guess you can’t,” Dante says. His voice sounds raw. Rough hewn. The skin of his throat has already begun to go red—a curse of their fair complexion—white stars on either side of his Adam’s apple that Vergil knows match the width of his own palm.

“You’re playing dirty.”

“You can’t pretend you don’t feel the same, Vergil. I can feel it, you know. This close, hell, I can smell it.”

Vergil can too, now that he’s thinking about it. The stinging scent of sweat and heady arousal. His own cock filled out and pressed tight to the front of his trousers.

“You gonna let me see it,” Dante asks over a grunt. Still dragging Vergil’s ass against his trapped cock. “Gonna show me?”

It’s filthy, base. Dante’s mouth, Dante’s request, Dante’s goddamn everything. Vergil forces the fingers he still has resting on Dante’s face into Dante’s mouth instead, pressing down on his brother’s tongue just to get him to shut up.

And Dante takes it like he’s taken everything, with a wicked glint in his eye, and a smug curl to his lips. He laves his tongue against Vergil’s fingertips, shudders a moan when Vergil pushes his fingers deeper, down to the second knuckle. Spit leaking from the corners of his mouth.

Whatever is happening here between them sizzles like fire in Vergil’s veins. Igniting, alighting. It feels like it has been building for a very, very long time. A narrative without structure finally, finally given plot.

He removes his dripping fingers from Dante’s mouth. Slides them, wet and slick, over the clasps of his pants. Spit on the leather gleaming like the devious fire in Dante’s eyes.

“Scoot up,” Dante says and his hands on Vergil’s thighs encourage him closer. Vergil’s cock looks as sinful against Dante’s lips as his fingers had. Wrong in so many ways and yet also just...right. Inevitable. What it always comes down to.

Only it’s never come to this before, always held just short of this potential. This dangerous, knife-edge of too far.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Dante says. Those lips brushing the sensitive skin, making Vergil shudder. “That’s what the older brother should do, right?”

“I tried.”

“You survived.”

“You didn’t need me.”

“You never thought to ask if I did. We’re both dumbasses. But I was a kid and I didn’t know how to say what I wanted.” Dante’s hands shift on his thighs. Broad and warm even through Vergil’s trousers. He can feel them, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that follows Vergil’s heartbeat. 

“Has that changed?”

“I want to do this for you,” Dante says.

“I’ve never…What if I can’t?”

“You have a kid, Vergil. A damn good one. You clearly can.” His fingers tease gingerly at Vergil’s foreskin, pushing the tip beneath it, drawing it gently away from the head.

“I don’t remember that,” Vergil says.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dante licks his lips. Tongue bumping against the underside of Vergil’s cock as he does so. Nothing more than teasing, fluttering heat, but heat all the same.

A similar, flickering arousal simmers in Vergil’s gut when he registers that there is only one hand touching him any longer. That Dante’s other hand has moved to stoke his own cock.

Together, taking care of them both.

Vergil sighs, he fists his hands in Dante’s hair when Dante takes him fully into his mouth. Tight wet heat and that slick messy tongue making short work of him.

Utterly humiliating the way Vergil groans, grunts like the very air is being forced from his lungs. Like they’ve collapsed. He cannot seem to draw another breath inward, his throat constricting as surely as Dante’s had when his hands had been choking him.

He watches his cock disappear between Dante’s pink, abused lips. He tilts his hips, slides back out, and the skin is obscenely shiny. As moist and drenched as his fingers had been.

“That’s the way,” Dante says. Eyes meeting Vergil’s. His voice is still wrecked, thick and pitching. “Don’t be afraid to fuck my mouth, V. You’ve never been above hurting me.”

The barb is low, even for Dante who has never been above fighting dirty. But it doesn’t come off the way it could, doesn’t carry the poison that it’s due.

This is simply their existence, to hurt one another and bounce back and do it all over again.

Vergil grips the base of his own cock and feeds it back between Dante’s waiting lips. Presses deeper than he had before, angling his hips so he can thrust in tiny, aborted little twitches. Dante’s eyes flutter shut as Vergil cradles his head, gets a better angle to plow into his mouth.

Dante gags, the hand touching Vergil’s leg grips so tight there is bound to be bruises. But he doesn’t pull away, nothing in his posture or his submissions says stop. So Vergil doesn’t. He gets his cock in deep and holds it there, watches Dante’s expression, as he swallows around the obstruction in this throat.

One second, two, four. Vergil loses count like he’s losing his sanity for every second his wrapped in the velvety softness of his brother’s mouth. Eventually he pulls back, and Dante scrapes in a great whooping inhale.

“Oh shit,” he mutters and his hand leaves Vergil’s thigh to cover his own eyes. The sounds of his jerking off has become sloppy and as wet as his lips.

Vergil tilts his head to watch Dante’s work. Hand moving on his cock so quickly it’s almost a blur. Foreskin pulled back all the way to expose the moist, reddened head.

“You can touch,” Dante says, prompting Vergil to look back. To take measure of the hungry expression on Dante’s face. His red cheeks, his open, abused mouth.

“I don’t—,”

He shoulders Vergil off of him, sits up. Their legs tangle as Dante scoots closer. “You’re so full of shit, Vergil,” Dante hisses. “Making me do all the work.”

But he doesn’t really seem to mind, not when he’s lining them up, grinding them together. A quick, brutal pace, dragging Vergil along with him. Caught up like a tidal wave. Vergil’s hands grip Dante’s ears, pull his brother close to breath against his mouth. His lips are still spit-slick, still red and pouting from Vergil’s earlier treatment.

It’s all too much. The inevitability ebbing and surging over and over with Dante’s efficient strokes. It’s too much and it isn’t enough. No, not nearly enough. Vergil’s heart aches and something human in him shudders and flutters to the surface of his brain before submerging again, lost.

“Dante,” he hisses, voice awful and fragile and small. “Dante, I’m—,”

“Yeah,” Dante answers, panting. The press of his stubble against Vergil’s cheek leaving the skin feeling worn raw. “Yeah, Vergil, yeah. Lemme see it.”

Filthy.

Base.

And it does everything that Dante must have known that it would. Vergil’s gut flexes, something deep in his core twinging with sudden shattering heat. Vergil’s fingers tighten in Dante’s hair, his labored breathing comes to a halt. His narrows down to pinpoint sensations, the places where Dante is touching him. Rushing, roaring.

Vergil collapses back, breathing again, inhaling as deeply as he can, over and over. Each breath like it could be his last. Dante is still touching him, following him over and down. He’s saying something, no doubt it is something smug and brash and self-inflating.

No doubt about it at all.

Vergil closes his eyes.

Something touches his forehead, itching, scratching and Vergil recognizes the feel of his brother’s lips. Moist still. Abused and pink still when Vergil opens his eyes.

“Here I thought maybe I’d finally killed you,” Dante says.

“No you didn’t.”

Dante smiles. Lazy and slow. He scratches his nose. “No,” he says. “I didn’t. It was quite the show though.”

Vergil looks away. His legs move. His body aches with pleasant, satisfied warmth, muscles protesting as he rolls out from under Dante’s weight. He feels gelatinous, no longer fully formed. Undone at the seams.

There is a stain on the front of his trousers. A telling wet spot in the leather. With a disgusted huff, Vergil wipes at it.

Dante doesn’t seem to be in a much better state, curled on his side with an arm propped beneath his head observing Vergil’s futile ministrations. That stupid smile has gone nowhere, curling at the corners of Dante’s mouth like he’s won something.

Like he’s proven something.

“What are you doing,” Vergil asks, not because he expects an answer but because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t know,” Dante says back. Chuckling lightly. Nose wrinkling.

“Would you stop it then?”

Dante shakes his head. “Probably not.” He winks. Teeth catching on his lip. A challenge in it. An unspoken ‘make me’.

Their eternity. Their forever.

Vergil launches himself across the short distance between them. His hands catch unceremoniously in Dante’s hair, and rolling and spinning they start again.

There is after all, all the time in the world.


End file.
